The In-Between Hour. Barbara White Claypole

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СКАЧАТЬ just need to get him home,” Hannah said. “Out of California, away from the ex-girlfriend and the mental hospital. Home to the cottage, so I can help him heal.”

      “Think that’s a good idea—leaving him unsupervised in the cottage?”

      Acorns splattered the cottage porch in a series of pops as if fired from a muzzled BB gun, and the Crayola-colored spinners she’d hung for her father the week before his death swirled in a sudden breeze, whirring softly.

      “He’ll be home,” Hannah said. “And he won’t be unsupervised. I’ll be watching over him, which is better than right now. His therapy ends at four and then he returns to an empty apartment for the rest of the day. He spends every evening and every night alone.”

      Poppy sucked chocolate off her fingers. “And the whole heavy-duty meds thing isn’t freaking out your inner holistic-ness?”

      “Sometimes medication is the cure.”

      “And sometimes it makes things worse. People in pain do painful things, Han.”

      The downside of exposing secrets to a friend: she knew how to hurt you.

      “So.” Poppy rustled the bag closed. “You figure out what happened? I mean, the whole sequence of events?”

      “Not entirely, since Galen didn’t want us in any of the therapy sessions. It still makes no sense to me. How can you return to grad school, drop out of classes and decide to die in a matter of weeks? I was hoping, when he came home, he might talk to you.”

      Poppy broke eye contact. “Sure.”

      In the forest, a pair of coonhounds bayed, a nasty reminder that at least one of the fancy new homes on the ridge was now occupied.

      “On to happier things. Fill me in on your life,” Hannah said. “What have I missed?”

      “I met this guy.”

      “Poppyyyyy. Not again.”

      “Eighty-year-old guy. You’d approve.”

      Hannah slapped the side of her head. “Argh, sorry. Completely forgot about Hawk’s Ridge. How’s it working out?”

      “You were right about the whole art therapy thing. Love hanging out with the old folks. Don’t think it’s going to turn into a paying gig, but the director and the staff stay clear. Let me do my own thing. There’s this sweet guy, Jacob. You, missy, would love him. Knows a shit-ton about plants and trees. A real woodsman. Such a shame to see him cooped up in that place. Has this grandson who’s on an amazing European adventure. I took Jacob to Walmart the other day and we bought a huge map and colored Sharpies so we could plot the kid’s route. They’re not supposed to tape stuff to the walls.” Poppy grinned. “So we stuck it up with half a roll of packing tape. Bwah-hah-hah.”

      “You think that’s a good idea?”

      “Rules, Han, are for breaking. Especially when you’re eighty. Can I borrow the truck today? I found a kiln for sale. Thought I’d check it out.”

      Poppy already had two kilns but barely used one. The recession was strangling her ceramics business.

      “And where are you going to put another kiln?”

      “Lordy, a girl can never have too many kilns!”

      “Okay, sure.” Hannah meant no. No, it’s horribly inconvenient; no, I need the truck for work. But no was such a difficult word. It always gummed up her mouth like sticky toffee. Still, good to know your greatest weakness, even if, at forty-five, it was more of a fluorescent tattoo inked on your forehead.

      Hannah stretched her right arm, then her left. Fanning out her hands, she released the tension needling at her fingertips and imagined it floating up into the sky. Disintegrating into the earth’s atmosphere.

      “Galen’s going to be fine.” Was she reassuring herself or Poppy? “It won’t be easy; it won’t happen overnight, but I can fix him.” Her words condensed into a tiny cloud, the only water vapor in what would, no doubt, be another beautiful, dangerously dry day. “And I’ve promised he’ll never have to return to another mental hospital.”

      “I know, girl. We’ll keep him safe. So. We standing out here till the next millennium, or are you offering me coffee?” Poppy brushed past Hannah and jogged up the front steps. The dogs, except for Rosie, followed.

      The screen door slammed, but Hannah stood still in the dark and listened for the sound of falling leaves. A reminder that cooler weather was on the way, that eventually the oppressive heat would break.

      Ghosts stepped out of the shadows—memories of Galen and Liam riding bikes and falling out of trees. Well, Liam was the one who fell out of the tree, while he was grounded and attempting an escape. Galen, always the big brother, had tried to cover up the misdemeanor with a lie. Not a very good one, either.

      Hannah smiled.

      Lie to me and your asses are mine, she’d told the boys when they were old enough to understand. She had never elaborated, preferring to let their imaginations construct a suitable punishment. Liam had decided this meant Mommy would smack him with a wooden spoon—a threat she had issued once. But Galen’s mind had drawn an elaborate scenario that involved Mom locking him in the crawl space where he would be bitten by a brown recluse spider and die in excruciating pain.

      Honest to God, she used to believe Liam would end up in Sing Sing. Constantly seeking to be high on life, his wild streak far exceeded hers, and she’d lost her virginity at fourteen. But Galen? The worst thing he ever did was stay up till 3:00 a.m. on a school night writing poetry.

      Through the darkness, a flush of blooms hovered over her mutabilis rose like brightly colored butterflies. How wrong she had been to assume all roses were high maintenance. This old-fashioned plant had thrived in her parched garden, and now it burst open with a second round of buds and flowers the color of apricot, baby pink and crimson. As petals unfurled in drought and sometimes opened at dusk, hope grew in unexpected places.

      Hannah shoved her hands into the front pocket of her UNC hoodie and stared toward the tree line, wishing on miracles and ignoring the whisper of concern that told her wind in a bone-dry forest was never a good sign.

      Three

      Needles of rain softened to a drizzle as Will slipped on his Ray-Bans and became another B-list celebrity walking through Central Park. A bag lady ranted about the Apocalypse, and a beautiful young woman pushing a double stroller smiled at him. Or maybe she was appreciating the ridiculously large bouquet of flowers he had bought for his overworked publicist.

      The path climbed steeply toward Dene Rock, and Will followed. He would perch on the outcrop and find the solution to unraveling this mess with his dad. Lying once about Freddie’s death had been an unforgivable lapse of judgment, and yet Will was now stuck in the middle of that lie—a spider caught in its own web. The old man had hooked up with the substitute art teacher, and the two of them were tracking Freddie’s trip with an energy previously reserved for circumventing the rules at Hawk’s Ridge Retirement Community. The first time Will had lacked the patience to deal with his dad’s memory loss, the first time he’d thrown out some comment that was meant—meant—to be forgotten, and his dad had glommed on to it. How could the СКАЧАТЬ